


Flaws

by kate_the_reader



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Tattoos, anxieties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-30 00:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11452374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: Neither Arthur nor Eames is perfect. In his own eyes.





	Flaws

You have always worn your flaws upon your sleeve  
And I have always buried them deep beneath the ground

_Flaws_ , **Bastille**

  


“What’s this one?” says Arthur, tracing his finger over a tattoo low down, almost on Eames’ ass.

Eames twists to look over his shoulder. “Reykjavik, 2005,” he says, shrugging. It is a small irregular shape.

Arthur runs his finger over it again. “Oh!” he says. “Iceberg?”

“Just so, darling,” says Eames. “There was a lot that was unsaid on that job. It’s a bit obvious.” 

Arthur never asks about more than one tattoo on any occasion. He likes to ponder Eames’ artistic choices. His hidden meanings.

He’d been on that job, but it was before, long before, him and Eames. 

_A lot that was unsaid?_

“Jeez, Eames!” he says, slapping the tattoo lightly. “I was there.”

“That you were,” says Eames, smiling at him, revealing his crooked teeth, making Arthur’s heartbeat catch. “A lot that was unsaid.”

He lies back down, his face pillowed on his folded arms. Arthur traces the shape one more time and lies down too, running his hand down the side of Eames’ face, turned towards him. “There was,” he agrees. “Weird time.”

“Umhm.” Eames’ eyes are drifting shut. It’s been a long day. 

Before he follows Eames into sleep, Arthur takes out a Moleskine he keeps just for this and draws the shape. He notes the city in a private shorthand, and the date. He knows it’s stupid, and possibly dangerous, to keep this record. It’s not like he’ll forget, and now he can see them whenever he wants, after all. But it makes his slow accumulation of clues more tangible, so he keeps doing it.

*

He’s up, laying out his clothes neatly, as he always does, as he needs to do, when Eames wakes, and stretches, groaning, pushing his hand, the one with the curled-in finger, through his hair.

“Darling,” he says fondly, his voice soft, fading back into sleepiness. “Why’re you up?”

“Getting ready,” says Arthur. “We’ve got to meet the guy, do the run-through.”

“Not for hours,” says Eames, a little more alert.

“Well,” says Arthur, “you know …” 

Eames can't fail to have noticed how meticulous Arthur is about getting ready, how carefully he lays out his things, how neatly, how precisely. He really doesn't want to have to explain, now, while he’s busy.

Eames smiles. “Yeah, otherwise I'll take all the hot water, I suppose.” His eyes are closing again. 

Arthur walks over to the bed and smooths his hair. “Like you do,” he says and watches Eames fall asleep again, grateful for his little fiction.

He goes back to the dresser where he had been considering cufflinks. His rhythm is a little off and he drops them as he pulls them from the black velvet case where they are all neatly arranged. He closes his eyes briefly, settling. Then he lays them next to his watch and his pen, and turns away, heading for the bathroom.

He’s shaving when Eames comes in, meeting his eyes in the mirror, silently asking permission. Arthur would rather finish in peace but that wouldn't be fair. He takes so long, after all. He nods and Eames comes over to pee. When he’s done, Arthur steps aside to let him wash his hands. 

“Morning, love,” he says, voice still slurring with sleep.

“Hello, Eames,” says Arthur, waiting for him to finish. His eyes drift down to last night’s tattoo, almost on the swell of Eames’ ass. Why there? He’ll ask, but not now. When Eames steps back, he brushes a kiss across Arthur’s temple. Arthur tries not to flinch, but he can feel himself frown.

“Thank you,” says Eames. “Sorry to disturb.”

“No, that’s okay,” says Arthur, giving him a quick smile over his shoulder before he returns to shaving, settling back into the rhythm of his morning. 

Getting together with Eames had been a risk, a risk to his equilibrium. A risk that has proved worth it. He hasn’t let go of all the bolsters to his equilibrium, though.

By the time he’s done shaving, checked for stray patches of stubble, applied balm, combed his hair carefully back, he can hear Eames moving around. When Arthur steps back into the room, he’s sitting propped up against all the pillows, the sheet pulled over his lap, drinking a cup of coffee.

The pot is steaming on a tray on the credenza. Eames gestures with his cup, but he doesn't say anything. Arthur pours a cup, taking a cautious sip and setting it on the nightstand as he starts to dress.

He picks up his briefs, black, and steps into them. Eames is watching. Of course he is. Socks next or undershirt? Eames’ eyes are so appreciative he decides on socks. He sits down on the edge of the bed, bending forward, his bare back to Eames. Small choices like this have added an extra layer to getting dressed. 

He drinks more of his cooling coffee before picking up his undershirt. Rooms with a sofa make this easier. Somewhere to put everything — undershirt, shirt, tie, belt, socks. 

He catches and holds Eames’ gaze as he shakes out the white cotton, slips it over his head. Eames is smiling when his head emerges from the neck. Arthur keeps his expression neutral, pulls the fabric into place. Slower than he would if he was alone, perhaps. 

He turns away to pick up his shirt, folded crisply by the laundry near his apartment at home. Short jobs are best, that way he can bring enough properly folded shirts, doesn't have to hazard hotel laundries. Or worse, wash his own shirts, hanging them to dry.

There’s a skill to unfolding a starched shirt, unfurling the sharp lines. He does it with a snap of his wrists. Eames raises an eyebrow fractionally but doesn't say anything. Arthur slips his arms into the stiff sleeves, enjoying the cool slide of the fabric. Does the buttons up carefully, fingers sure even though he’s not looking at his hands.

His suit is hanging on the closet door. He lifts the pants off the hanger, out from under the jacket, bends to step into them, turns back towards the bed. Eames is smiling even more broadly, the imperfection of his teeth on display. Arthur flashes another quick smile, making sure his shirt is smoothly tucked in as he does up his fly and steps back to the sofa to get his belt. 

His tie is next. He could turn away to the dresser mirror. Or he needn't. He doesn't have to watch his hands form the knot. He flips his collar up, checks the evenness of the ends, makes the knot. Now he turns to the dresser to buckle on his watch, pick up his cufflinks. He glances over his shoulder at Eames, who opens his hand, tilts his head. Arthur walks round the bed, hands them over and holds out his wrists. Eames fits them into the holes in his cuffs, brushes his thumbs over his pulses. 

“All put together,” he says. 

“Yes,” says Arthur. “Thank you.” _For giving me the space,_ he thinks. _For not asking._

He goes back round the bed to fetch his coffee cup, tops it up and sits at the desk, opening his laptop, while behind him, Eames gets out of bed. Arthur sees him reflected in the still-dark screen, turns to look as Eames stretches his arms over his head. He knows he’s supposed to look, that his gaze is desired. Stretching reveals hidden pictures. Things Eames has placed specifically so they have to be discovered. Some are in Arthur’s notebook, others still wait their turn. Eames walks over to the bathroom and Arthur turns back to his email, the tracker he has on the mark’s cellphone, the three news sites he prefers.

Eames is the most perceptive man Arthur knows, so he knows their show-and-don’t-really-tell game is entirely deliberate. Eames certainly understands a lot that Arthur hasn't directly told him, just as Arthur knows he’s being let in on things without being told. And he knows they both love it. He’s never wanted to reveal so much about himself — the things he thinks of as weaknesses (or eccentricities at least) — as he lets Eames see. 

And Eames, well, let others think he’s an open book, Arthur has seen how much is hidden, only on display to a select few. Or just to one.

Eames comes back out of the bathroom with a towel low on his hips.

“This thing,” he says, “how smart should I be?”

Eames loves clothes, even though the less observant insist on believing he throws on the first loud shirt that falls from his closet every morning.

“All black?” says Arthur. “But no tie.” 

Eames looks over his shoulder, raises an eyebrow, neatly groomed as always; his hair is perfectly combed, his stubble artful. “Ah yes,” he says, “good foil for your pale gray. You didn't take them out, but you laid my clothes out too, didn't you, darling?” 

Arthur smiles, gifting Eames his dimples. “You got me!” he says.

The fact that Eames defers to Arthur in this, sometimes, is part of their game.

He turns back to his laptop; much as he wants to watch, there are things he has to get done and there’s a price to pay for allowing himself to dress so languidly. The thought of going in underprepared makes his stomach heave. There’s a reason he’s known throughout the business for his meticulous preparation, and it’s one not many people know. 

Eames is already dressed anyway. He understands. He sits on the bed lacing his shoes. Arthur hasn't put his on yet, and Eames carries them over. “Ready, love?” he says quietly, putting them down. 

“I guess,” says Arthur.

Eames laughs. “In other words, more prepared than anyone else would be.”

Arthur turns in his seat. “Well, you know …”

“I do. Shall we go?”

*

“That was—”

“Less of a cock-up than it could have been,” Eames cuts him off, looking over from the other chair.

Arthur is breathing hard. His hand is shaking as he tries to get the cannula out. “Fuck it,” he mutters, “why can't I just …”

Eames reaches across the space, takes hold of Arthur’s wrist. “Shh, darling. Let me.” He gets up, crouches next to Arthur’s chair, eases the needle out and clamps his thumb over the drop of blood that squeezes up.

“Look at me, Arthur.”

Arthur raises his eyes from Eames’ hand to his face.

“Yes, it was weird,” says Eames. “Yes, it was unexpected. No, we don’t know why, yet.” He presses his thumb more firmly to Arthur’s wrist. “No, it wasn't your fault.”

“But—” 

“Arthur, why aren't you listening?” says Eames, a bit sharply. His other hand, the one with the curled-in finger, comes up to grasp Arthur’s chin. “We’ll figure it out. You’ll figure it out. It wasn't a disaster. We’ll fix it next time.” He gives Arthur’s chin a tiny shake, rubs his thumb along his jaw, leans in to kiss him.

Arthur is sure Eames meant the kiss to be light, reassuring, but he needs more, pushes his way into Eames’ mouth. Eames understands. He deepens the kiss, and then, pulling back, catches Arthur’s lip with his crooked bite. Arthur sighs. His hands have stopped trembling. 

“Thank you,” he says, and stands up to pack away the PASIV, coiling the lines with particular care. 

*

It had been an amazing, liberating revelation to him, the first times he dreamed. He didn't have to plan everything in a dream. He could think on the fly, change things around, come up with stuff in the moment. He’d taken to trying to rile things up down there, just to see if he could fix it. And he could. In a dream. Hell, he could drop a whole team without gravity, just him and some electrical cords, a few well-placed charges. Arthur relished the reputation he got for that, even if he’d had to discreetly tell the story himself. Eames had believed him straightaway, is forever telling dreamers whom they’ve just met. It is embarrassing, really. But he likes the way it sits beside his other reputation, as the planner who does more research than anyone, who covers all possible eventualities, who is never surprised. Because of course on that job, he had been surprised by a detail — and blamed for it too.

*

So what the _fuck_ had gone wrong this time? He can't stop going over it, looking at it from all sides, asking himself, asking Eames, what he’d done wrong, what they could have done differently, what he hadn't known that he should have known.

Eames listens patiently. Of course he does, he’s Eames, and Arthur is Arthur and Eames listens to Arthur, always.

But then he says: “I don't think … no, I’m sure, actually, it’s not something you could have known, topside.” Arthur takes a breath, to argue, and Eames holds up his hand, “So we have a choice, go back under, now, to see if we can work it out, or go back, take some time, relax—”

“Back down now,” Arthur interrupts. 

Eames laughs. “Of course, don't know why I offered it as a choice,” he says. “ _I_ think you’d be better off trying to fix it later. We have time, you’ve seen to that.”

“I can't relax till we’ve tried, though,” says Arthur. “You know that,” he adds quietly, looking away.

“I do,” Eames agrees, opening the PASIV case again. “Why did you pack this up?”

Arthur smiles wryly. Eames gets it. 

It turns out it’s a tiny flaw in the design that neither of them noticed the first time round. Eames laughs when they realise. Arthur can't let it go so easily.

“Fuck, I’m going to tear that _idiot_ Foyle a new one when we see her. Hell, I'll do it by Skype and in person. She won’t know what hit her. She won’t want to work with me again, which is just as well, I can't work with her again. She’s going to wish she never—” He glances over and catches Eames’ eye and is suddenly aware how ridiculous the situation is. He laughs, not entirely mirthfully. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “It’s not a calamity, I guess.”

Eames steps over towards him, brushes the back of his hand down his cheek, but he doesn't point out how over the top Arthur's rant was. There’s no need to state the obvious. He doesn't offer any trite comfort, either. Arthur tilts his face into the touch. “Okay,” he says, “well, nothing we can do here, now.”

They have to wait out the timer; Eames pulls Arthur to him in a hidden nook and they sit in silence, his arm around Arthur’s shoulder, Arthur’s head on his.

Afterwards, Eames makes the call to Foyle, who is profoundly apologetic (and no doubt, profoundly grateful to be dealing with Eames, not Arthur) and promises to fix the glitch even if she has to stay up for days. It’s a small thing, she’s not going to lose any sleep, they all know. Still, the promise is the least she can do, as Arthur points out. 

He’s lying on their hotel bed, shoes and jacket off, tie loosened. He wouldn't normally be lounging like this in good clothes, but he’s too tired to care. Eames comes over from the desk where he’s been skyping with Foyle, and on the phone with the client explaining the short delay that will ensue. He sits down on the edge of the bed and turns towards Arthur. 

“Nothing more we can do now. How can I help you relax?”

There are plenty of people in dreamshare who might think they know the answer to that question, having seen the way Arthur looks at Eames and Eames looks at Arthur.

“Talk to me? While I fall asleep?”

“Of course, darling. Can I just get you out of the rest of your suit, first? Hang it up properly?”

Arthur would like that very much.

He sits up, but lets Eames do the work, carefully undoing what he so carefully watched being put together earlier. Eames crouches by the bed, unknots the tie, then undoes the buttons of Arthur’s shirt, pulling the tails free of his waistband. Arthur has his hands in his lap, and Eames takes out his cufflinks. He peels the shirt from his shoulders and down his arms, laying it to one side. He drops his hands to Arthur’s belt buckle. 

There’s nothing sexual about what they are doing. Arthur will never stop being grateful that Eames can tell what he needs. 

Eames unbuckles Arthur’s belt, eases his zip down, slips his arm round his waist and tips him forward. Arthur leans into Eames’ shoulder and lets him pull his pants down. Last, Eames takes off Arthur’s socks, his fingers gentle.

“Far enough?” he says, his hand on Arthur’s chest, on his undershirt.

“Yes.” Arthur lifts his feet back onto the bed. 

“Oh no, love,” says Eames, “bathroom first, then you can just go to sleep.”

He’s right, of course. Arthur sighs and gets up.

Returning, he gets into bed, already feeling far more relaxed than he'd thought he would. 

Eames has stripped to his boxers. He gets into bed and leans against the pillows, so Arthur can rest his head on his thigh. He brushes his hand through Arthur’s hair.

“What shall I talk to you about?” he says.

“Tell me about Reykjavik.” Arthur’s eyes are closed; he puts his hand on Eames’ knee.

“Okay,” says Eames. “That was the second time we met. I don't really recall the job. It’s not important. I remember that little café, though, the one with the cat.”

Arthur remembers the cat too, how Eames lit up when he saw it asleep in the window. He smiles, opening his eyes to look up at Eames.

“It was so cold, I bought an Icelandic jumper. I wonder if I still have it?” He scratches lightly at Arthur’s scalp. “You had a beautiful coat. Camel. God, you were gorgeous. We had coffee in that cat café and I was trying to get you to tell me more about yourself. But you didn't give me much.” 

He laughs and Arthur wishes he was lying against his chest so he could feel it. 

“I was so frustrated, I teased you so, just trying to get a reaction. I was young, I didn't know what I was doing. Never faced a challenge like you.”

“A challenge? You were so beautiful I was amazed you even wanted to talk to me. With my ridiculous camel overcoat! I was 23 for god’s sake.”

“I wanted to get beneath that coat … and then you left, and I was hanging around Reykjavik for another day and I hunted out a tattoo shop and got my second Arthur tattoo—”

“Second?”

“It was the second time we met.”

Arthur had been planning to let himself drift to sleep like this, lying against Eames, listening to the quiet rumble of his voice. But he sits up now.

“Show me the first?” 

Usually, Arthur asks about whatever tattoo his fingers happen to be lingering on when the mood strikes. Eames raises his right arm above his head, revealing the birds on the inside, high up, utterly secret. 

“This one,” he says, pointing to the one in the centre. “The first swallow.” His fingers caress it and he smiles.

“The first swallow?” There are six birds, a darting, swirling flock. 

“I added another each time I saw you.” 

Arthur touches the bird, a black silhouette. “London, 2004?”

“Yes.” Eames’ fingers brush Arthur’s. 

“Is there a Reykjavik one?” Arthur traces the others. 

“There is. This one.” Eames moves his finger to the smallest bird. He lowers his arm, drawing Arthur close, sliding down in the bed. Arthur rests his head on Eames’ chest.

“Thank you.” He’ll add the swallows to his record tomorrow. 

Eames’ fingers play with his hair and Arthur places a kiss on Eames’ ugliest tattoo, the one on his right pectoral. In his notebook, that one is labeled “Brighton, 1998”. A youthful indiscretion. Part of Eames, though. 

*

Weeks after the job, one morning in Arthur’s apartment — which is starting to seem like it’s both of theirs, even if they’ve never spoken in so many words about it — Arthur walks into the bathroom while Eames is shaving. The towel he has wrapped around his hips has started to slip, revealing the tattoo. Arthur makes sure Eames sees him in the mirror before brushing his hand over it.

“Why here?” he says. He’s been wanting to ask since the night Eames told him what it meant, but the right moment just hasn't presented itself, and Arthur is patient. He thinks he knows, but he wants to hear it from Eames. 

“It's not for anyone else,” says Eames. 

“Only for you?” 

“Well, when I had it done I didn't know if you’d ever see it. I hoped you would.”

Arthur doesn't know what to say to that, so he leans forward, and, holding Eames’ eyes in the mirror, kisses his shoulder, which bears a paper pinwheel. He bites at it, all the while keeping his hand on the iceberg.

Eames doesn't say anything, but his eyes never leave Arthur’s and his breath is rather short.

Mindful of the shaving soap drying on his cheeks, Arthur leaves Eames to finish up then. His breath is also rather short as he walks back into the bedroom.

He had been about to get dressed, start the day. They don't have anywhere particular to be, but Arthur needs to be put together anyway. 

Now, though, he sits on the bed in his underwear, waiting.

“Arthur?” says Eames, coming in. “What’s wrong, love?”

Arthur frowns. “Nothing. I'm just waiting for you.”

“Ah,” says Eames. “Here I am.” He stops in front of Arthur. His towel is more secure. 

Arthur reaches up, traces the words at Eames’ hip, just above the towel. _Mombasa, 2009_ , he thinks. One of the first he’d asked about. Part of him wants to know every one; another part wants never to stop slowly finding out.

“You put a permanent mark on yourself that you hoped I’d see one day, after the second time we met, when I had hardly been … forthcoming?” 

Eames smiles, fond, but close-mouthed, hiding his wonky teeth. He nods. “I'm an optimist,” he says. 

“Almost insanely so,” says Arthur, but he’s smiling too and he pushes his fingers under the edge of the towel, causing it to fall. Eames steps even closer, kneels on the bed straddling Arthur’s lap. Arthur allows himself to be pressed back onto the bed; after all, they have nowhere particular to be.

Arthur likes to be clean, and neat, and put together. But he loves being sweaty, and exhausted, and wrecked with Eames. 

Afterwards, Eames runs his fingers over the mark he placed on Arthur's neck. Low down, easily covered by a buttoned collar. “Sorry, darling, I got a bit carried away.” 

Arthur brings his hand up over Eames’. “Don't be sorry. I'm not. You put it there, under my collar, so carefully.”

“You would never get inked, would you?” says Eames, suddenly.

“No, I think choosing would drive me crazy. I’d be worried I wouldn't like it in a few months.” He turns his face to look at Eames, right there next to him on the pillow. “You’ve seen me with clothes.”

“Yes.” Eames smiles, a bit wry. “I don't hesitate. I’ve got several I suppose I should regret. But I don’t, you know. It’s all a story. I wear my life on my skin.”

Arthur rolls over and grabs Eames’ wrist, lifting his arm over his head, nosing into his armpit, into the swallows swooping just above it. “Tell me another?” he says, muffled.

“Berlin, 2006.”

“This one? Or this one?” The one Eames indicates is bigger than Reykjavik’s. Another swallow to add to the notebook. Another clue to the story of Eames. Arthur licks at it. “Thank you. I hope I was nicer to you then?”

“You were always … intriguing.”

Arthur recalls that job. Eames had invited him to a tiny jazz club where they had drunk cocktails. He thinks he got a little tipsy.

Arthur wonders if this one has a companion piece. He looks forward to discovering it. He’s seen all the pictures on Eames’ skin, he just doesn't know what they all mean.

But something is tugging at him. Eames has six swallows. They didn't meet six times before they got together. He files the thought for later. 

*

Eames doesn’t like photographs of himself. Most people assume the opposite. Arthur doesn’t mind photos, if he isn’t caught off guard. 

Arthur does have a picture of Eames. It’s a shot taken with the team who worked on a job in Barcelona. Easy corporate gig. They’d all gone to a bar afterwards, had a bit too much Rioja, told the usual stories of jobs gone hilariously wrong. Arthur had had his phone out, checking his flight time, so it was easy to take a picture. Eames isn’t in the foreground. He has his head thrown back, laughing at something Esteban had said. Arthur doesn’t look at the others in the picture, really. He wonders if he’s being hypocritical. He doesn't like to be caught off guard, and in this picture, which he loves, he caught Eames entirely unguarded, open. It’s not that Eames is closed and guarded with him. He lets himself go, reveals his buried thoughts, his imperfections. _His perfections,_ Arthur thinks. And yet, Eames, beautiful Eames, doesn't like to be photographed.

One day, Eames is scrolling through the pictures Arthur has just taken of their current client’s teenage son, suspected of somehow stealing from his father’s company, when he scrolls back far enough to see the Barcelona picture. He goes quiet, frowning. Doesn’t say anything, but Arthur knows what he’s looking at. He hands the phone back.

Days later, Arthur is frowning at a very detailed phone log, trying to follow the teenager’s progress through New York by means of cell tower pings, when he hears the sound of a camera shutter and looks up.

Eames smiles at him and lowers his phone, looking at the screen with a pleased hum. Part of Arthur wants to ask to see the picture, but he forces himself to resist. He smiles back at Eames and returns to his task, figuring they’re even, although why Eames would want a picture of him frowning at his laptop isn't all that clear. 

“Why?” he asks, in bed that night, without preamble. It’s another part of their game, that Eames knows what he means. 

“You weren’t expecting it,” he says, which is what Arthur thought. 

“No, I wasn't. But frowning at a spreadsheet, really? Is that the best I can do?” 

“Of course not. Laughing like an idiot, is that the best I can do?” 

And now he’s said it. So Arthur sits up, scoots around so he can look straight at Eames. “I love that picture, but if it worries you, I won't keep it.” 

“Darling, I'm being stupid.”

“No, you’re not.”

“All my crookedness—”

“Your _crookedness_? Eames, what the fuck?” Arthur leans forward, touches Eames’ mouth. “Your _crookedness_?”

“My neglected English wonkiness. The bits I could have fixed but couldn't be arsed to.” He looks away. “Why do you put up with it? You’re always perfect, every line neat, very crease intended. And here I am. Skew and bent and inked …”

“Eames. Look at me.” Arthur waits for Eames to meet his eyes. “You _know_ why I'm so careful, I know you do.” 

Eames nods. “Darling—”

“Let me finish. You understand my flaws. Can’t I love yours? I love how comfortable you are in your skin. Or how comfortable I thought you were.” 

“Your ‘flaws’? I hope I understand _you_. I don't see any flaw.”

“And neither do I, don't you get it?” His voice is a little sharper than he intended. 

He lies down, sighs. “Tell me another swallow. Please.”

“Okay,” says Eames, accepting the overture. He curls his arm over his head and Arthur shuffles into the space. “Which one do you want?” 

Shall Arthur ask which one belongs to a particular place, or point to one and ask where it belongs?

He runs his fingertip over a bird flying on its own. “This one?”

“Nice, 2004.”

“We didn't work together in Nice. I’ve never even worked there with anyone,” says Arthur.

“The six times I saw you,” says Eames, with an inward look in his eyes.

“I was on holiday …” Arthur remembers.

“You were walking along the Promenade des Anglais. Wayfarers, blue sweater.”

“And you just watched me? Why didn't you say hello?” says Arthur.

“I hardly knew you. We’d only just met in London.” 

“We could have had a drink,” says Arthur.

“I was too nervous,” says Eames, softly.

Arthur doesn't know how to reply. He traces his finger over the bird again.

“You were so dazzling, darling.” 

This hesitant Eames is not someone Arthur knows. “I would have said yes. I think,” he says.

“Would you?” 

“I’d have been surprised. I didn't think you really noticed me, in London.”

“Oh, I noticed you. You had that navy-blue suit.”

“And that ridiculous yellow tie.” Arthur laughs at the memory. 

“And of course, you took notes all the time. That was pretty intimidating.”

“I was taking notes of what you said, though.”

Eames drops his arm and turns to face Arthur. “A missed opportunity, I suppose.”

“I guess,” says Arthur. “We’re here now, though. Please kiss me.” 

And Eames does, with his beloved mouth, full of his crooked teeth, cupping Arthur’s chin with his wonky hand. 

Pulling back, Arthur runs his thumb along Eames’ bottom lip, pulls it down. “Do you not get how much I adore your crookedness?” he says. Eames smiles, properly.

*

Eames never hints that Arthur’s extreme carefulness and need for order and information are trying his patience. Even if they are so utterly different from the way he himself approaches the world and their jobs. 

But Arthur wonders if he can allow himself to let some of it go. One day he takes his laundry out of the dryer and leaves it unfolded in the basket. It makes him feel a little unbalanced, but he forces himself to ignore it. The feeling fades. The next day, he folds the clothes, sighing over the creases as Eames watches without comment. A bit of a pointless experiment and one he probably won't repeat; after all, who wants to do more ironing than necessary?

Another day, he ignores his alarm, resettling himself against Eames’ warmth until time is too short to check his sources one last time. The job still goes smoothly. Again, Eames doesn't comment, but Arthur knows he notices. It’s a bit like the way he can let things slide in dreamspace and he wonders why he’s never thought to try topside before. 

He’s not about to start half-assing his research, but it does mean he has more free time. Like the afternoon in late May when he takes a stroll past a café where he knows Eames will be, keeping an eye on the annoying teenage criminal whose college dorm is opposite.

He’s wearing the old Wayfarers he dug out of the back of his dresser drawer, and a blue sweater. He glances over as he approaches. Eames is grinning broadly. He stands up. 

“Hello,” he says. “Would you have a drink with me?”

Arthur looks around, pretending to wonder if there’s someone else catching Eames’ eye. “Me?” he asks.

“I couldn't help noticing you,” says Eames. “I think we met? In London?”

“Mr Eames?” says Arthur, holding out his hand, “Yes, of course. In London.” 

Eames pulls out the other chair, waits for Arthur and sits down himself. 

Arthur can’t keep it up. He giggles. Eames throws back his head and laughs. “How did you know?” says Arthur.

Eames raises an eyebrow. “Seriously, Arthur?” 

“I suppose it’s a bit obvious.”

Eames leans over and ends the game by kissing him soundly. Arthur doesn't even flinch, though normally he’s too reserved for public displays.

*

“Why is your finger like that, anyway?” Arthur says one night, as Eames runs his wonky hand through his hair. He has never pressed Eames on anything like that before. 

“Broke it playing rugby at school and no one noticed till it was too late.”

“No one noticed? What sort of neglectful hellhole were you in?”

“Standard minor public school with one nurse and a bit of a macho culture.”

Eames holds up his hand and wiggles his pinky. “Doesn't bother me, you know.”

“Me either, I just wondered. And you were … worried about it, the other day,” says Arthur, reaching up to hold Eames’ hand. He pulls it down to his mouth.

“I'm sorry about that,” says Eames, “No idea what came over me.”

“Eames,” says Arthur, his mouth muffled against the bent knuckle, “if I apologized for all my oddness, I’d never stop. But you never make me feel like I have to. You know I love every single inch of you, don't you? Never apologize. And don't say sorry for saying sorry, either.”

Eames laughs. “Alright. We can just be odd together.”

“Yes, together.” Arthur rolls over and pushes Eames’ arm up, nosing into his armpit, licking at the swallows. There are still two more to understand. Another time. 

**Author's Note:**

> None of the tattoos in this fic exist outside my imagination.


End file.
